Brutally Honest
by BloodySpook
Summary: In war, loss is inevitable. But with loss comes the chance for something new to grow; not to replace what was there before it, but to make us whole again.
1. Chapter 1

_**Brutally Honest  
><strong>Chapter 1_

Hey, this is a story that I've been working on for the past couple of months, since before I even started** Enjoy the Silence**. I wanted to post the first chapter since I finally had the time, and would love some feedback. I truly do plan on this being a long fic, or at least, it will if I can help it. However, I feel I must make this clear beforehand. While this story starts out being mostly Ratchet and the twins, it is not about the twins. At all. This a story about Ratchet. So, without any further ado, here's the story.

- I do not own the concept of Transformers.  
>- There are no warnings for this chapter<p>

* * *

><p>Ratchet was what you'd call 'brutally honest'. Not so to the point of being cruel, but would tell you exactly what he thought to the point of being abrasive. And the more abrasive he was with an injured patient, the more supposedly he cared. He followed a strict 'tough love' policy. So when the twins came into his med bay one orn sporting numerous dents, scrapes, one or two sparking exposed wires each, and rather dazed expressions, he was quick to respond in the way the chief medical officer knew how to best.<p>

With a slap upside the helm to both of them.

It was promptly followed by a brief exclamation of pain for the red twin, and the golden twin flailing his arms before falling over.

Whatever tirade Ratchet had prepared on the tip of his dagger sharp glossa was stalled at the sight before him, mouth plates already set open. Sideswipe was swaying slightly as he rubbed his helm tenderly, and Sunstreaker was on the floor mumbling incoherently as he rolled over, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

"What... the_ frag_ did you do?" the medic deflated, an entirely confused look adorning his faceplates. He should have heard twin explicatives followed by ranting about paintjobs and a simultaneous loud babble of an excuse; not this!

The red twin wavered unsteadily a moment more, before he regarded the medic with pale optics. "I know we've said this before, but would you believe me this time if I said we have no fragging clue?"

"I'm tempted. Sorely tempted." Ratchet grumbled, grabbing the red frontliner's arm and guiding him to one of the medical berths the bay possessed. Then, with strength many would have not guessed he had, pulled the yellow doppelganger up so he was slumped over his shoulder, before lowering him to sit on a parallel berth. "Before I pass judgment however, tell me what you remember, at least."

This time, it was Sunstreaker who spoke in muted tones. "Got sent out to scout some old building, look for some old machine or other of Wheeljack's. Slaggin' place was old as the pit."

"Were crossing some empty floor near the top of the place."

"And suddenly we're on the outside of the place, on our backs, looking at the sky."

Well that certainly confirmed dual helm injuries, no medical scans needed. The twins only pulled that creepy 'finishing each other's thoughts' slag when they were both equally fragged up processor wise. Or they were overcharged to the pit. Which the medic was fairly certain they weren't.

"Which is surprisingly nice on a clear night. You should see it sometime Ratch." Sideswipe said thoughtfully, nodding to himself.

"Yeah, made me wish I had some paint." Sunstreaker added in what could almost pass for a wistful tone.

That made the medic stop dead in his tracks from where he had been going to pick up two sets of energon drips. Sideswipe never called something beautiful unless it was sarcastically, and Sunstreaker _never_ talked about his painting. Ever.

"Both of you slaggers on your backs,_ now_!" the medic snarled as he dropped the needles and lines in his hands before reaching to push each twin down by the shoulders. His hands were instantly flying, prying what was now obviously not only dented but punctured helm plating off of both their helms, his comm. line buzzing with orders to get afts to the med bay _now_. By the time the bay doors flew open, both red and yellow frames were strapped down and had at least a dozen wires plugged into ports across their helms.

"Hey, what's..." Sunstreaker said disconnectedly, watching with what could be compared to curious interest. "...what's going on, doc?"

"Sunstreaker, you and your brother both have severe processor injuries, and I need you to stay extremely still and quiet. I can't put you under because that'll shut down parts of your processor that might not come back on if they shut down incorrectly." Ratchet stated indulgently before turning and growling to the new inhabitants of the room. "Perceptor, I need you plugged into that console now, check their coding. Specifically, make sure none of its corrupted. We don't need the resident psychopaths any more screwed up than they already are. Clockwork, I need you to pull up the schematics for both of their helms, send me Sunstreaker's, and start searching for the damage to Sideswipe's helm. Start with the obvious and then jack in to find the internal. Reference back to the schematics if you're not sure. Catalogue what you find, but don't attempt to fix anything unless it's about to offline him. We need to figure out the best order to go about repairs. Wheeljack, I need you to start fluid drips with a medium lead based pain killer and watch their vitals. If they even step a toe out of line, send a med ping and all work stops, is that clear?" he looked around at the assembled mechs during his last three words, an icy glare accompanying it.

"Absolutely."

"Crystal."

"You got it, Ratchet."

The red and white bot nodded solemnly at the responses before turning to begin gently rotating the golden twin's helm to the side, looking for damage while asking him questions to test his cognitive welfare and get an idea of what areas of the mechs helm to pay the most attention to. He had a feeling that it would be a long while before he got to leave the med bay again. Time to call in a favor.

* * *

><p>As he came out of a rather lengthy reboot cycle after recharge, Sideswipe noticed that while there weren't any error messages in his HUD, there were more than a few messages alerting him to temporary shut downs or slowed efficiency in parts of his processor. However, all of them had med flags, letting him know that a medic was aware of them and had been either noted or done on purpose, and therefore nothing to worry about. However, the tapping so very near to his audio was something he knew to be very worried about. Cautiously, he opened his optics, fearing what kind of mood the good doctor might be in.<p>

And there they were.

The grey faceplates of doom, looking bored, impassive, and otherwise uninterested in whatever state of health he might be in.

"Ah, welcome back to the land of the functioning, Sideswipe." Ratchet said blandly, moving to wipe his hands on a dirty cloth. "Unfortunately, we couldn't salvage your helm at all, and it would have taken far too long to make you a new one, so we put your spark chamber and processor in a new frame. So congratulations. You're now a femme."

After a moment of shocked stupor, the red mech shot up and off of the berth, hands flying to try and reach as many pieces of his plating as he could before shrieking, "Oh _PIT_, no!"

"Oh good, your motor skills are all working. And the reflex time isn't that bad either, considering that reboot cycle I put you in." Ratchet smirked. "However, the processing power still leaves something to be desired, but I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about that."

"I…. I….!" Sideswipe stuttered for a moment before simply plopping back down onto the berth, arms crossed, looking every bit a petulant youngling.

"See, I told ya it'd work."

Whipping around, Sideswipe found his twin leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smirking.

"What, expect me to want to sit here and wait on your aft while he pulls some long aft tests? Thanks, but no thanks."

After sputtering for a moment, he leapt back off the berth to shout at his twin. "I knew it! I knew you cared! You would have left if you didn't care, but you're still here!" Then he ran at the golden mech, hugging him in a way that his twin made quite clear that was not welcome; both of them shouting.

Ratchet of course couldn't have cared any less for the brothers 'love fest', at least until his audios picked up on something coming from the complete opposite side of the med bay. Then he was instantly livid. He whirled on the two heathens, brandishing a wrench fresh from his subspace. "If you two don't shut your mouth plates and remove yourself from my med bay within the next _breem_, you will both be _wishing_ that that building had crushed you when it had the chance!"

Both twins immediately stopped what they were doing, glanced at each other for a moment, and then bolted for the doors. After all, it wasn't often that you were given a chance to escape the Hatchet's wrath with only a warning.

Once the doors slid shut, Ratchet slid his free hand down his faceplates in a tired manner, the other depositing the wrench back into his subspace pocket. He turned on his heels, walking back toward and into his office.

"Yes, yes, I hear you. Those heathens don't quite have the processing power to realize that there might be bots trying to rest in the med bay." He soothed as he reached down into the temporary recharge tank and gathered up the small yellow mech.

It had been a while, Ratchet mused, since the last orphan was brought to the base and passed through his care. Then again, that was to be expected. The war was only getting worse. The neutrals were pretty much the only ones still having sparklings, and they had all but abandoned the planet. There were occasionally those found abandoned by Decepticons, but they tended to not live much longer past being found and brought to a base, despite a medics best efforts. Yet, there was the occasional exception to the norm, a strong little mech or femme who would persevere, and would be passed from a medics care to a more permanent surrogate caretaker.

Much like the little mech currently clinging to his frame with tiny fists and a pitiful whine coming from his vocalizer.

"I know, they upset me too." He said as he settled the sparkling against his shoulder plating, reaching back into the tank to grab the thermal blanket. "However, knowing you, they probably woke you up at just the right time to make you realize your tank is empty."

Wrapping the fabric around the tiny frame, he walked back out of his office to the energon dispenser in the main bay, grabbing the small cube with the silicone stopper on the corner on his way over. The dispenser had access to several types of energon, including the mineral enhanced low grade that despite its sweeter taste, wasn't consumable by bots other than those with severe injuries whose self-repair systems were working overtime; and sparklings whose protoforms were still undergoing development and growth. He popped the stopper lid off the cube and placed it underneath the dispenser nozzle, putting in his medic's code for the low grade.

Once it was full, he put the lid back on the cube and gently shook it on his way back to his office. Sitting down in his chair, he put the cube on the desk and moved the sparkling to the crook of his left arm. The whimpering didn't stop however until a good few astroseconds after the silicone nub was placed in the sparklings mouth.

"There, warm energon, almost on demand too. What more could you want, bratling?"

After a small popping noise as the sparkling pulled the nub from his mouthplates, he was met with a gurgle that sounded vaguely offened, followed by a tiny fist pounding once on the hand that Ratchet used to hold the cube. The mechling then latched back onto the cube, the sounds of his eating growing louder; almost as if on purpose.

"You've been spending far too much time under my influence." The medic laughed lightly, shaking his head.

* * *

><p>Well, as you can see, this is very different from <strong>Enjoy the Silence<strong>, but will over time use one or two of the same ideas. Also, I am looking for a beta, if anyone would be interested, or knows someone who would be interested.

-_BloodySpook_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Brutally Honest  
><strong>Chapter 2_

First off, let me say thank you to all of you who have read or are reading this, it really felt great to see that this has gotten such a good response from the community! And a special shout out to those who reviewed: Mickey-Bee, LdyGossamer, and Vivienne Grainger. I appreciate the feedback, whether they be an actual review, or just a simple fav or alert!

And then an absolutely _enormous_ thank you to my beta, Vivienne Grainger! She's been an absolute joy to work with, and has helped out an incredible amount! She even helped me change the summary of the story! Thank you so much!

One last thing. Do remember that this is movie-verse, but as this is a fan fiction, I took liberties with a few things. Plots, characters... colors. My inner muse demanded that it happen that way.

- I do not own the concept of Transformers.  
>- There are no warnings for this chapter<p>

* * *

><p>While no one, himself included, would ever call Ratchet 'sentimental', he had to admit that he was becoming fond of the little scraplet. Which apparently suited the yellow mechlet just fine. As many times as Ratchet had nursed a sparkling back to health and sent them on to be raised by some other bot, this was the first time that a sparkling had refused to leave his company to be taken care of by someone else.<p>

Not for lack of trying, though.

The first time they'd tried to send him to spend the night with a potential caretaker, they'd brought him back in the unholy hours of the morning. Apparently, he'd shrieked all night once he'd realized that the medic was not coming back, refused to eat, and continued shrieking until he was plunked into the medic's hands. The next few caretakers had similar experiences, all resulting in the mech being deposited back into Ratchet's care.

Optimus, who had been known to have an incredibly calming effect on even the most fussy sparklings, got bitten for his efforts.

Even Ironhide, who was known to not take any sort of misbehavior from his charges or troops, simply walked back into the med bay, and placed the mechling into the temporary recharge tank by the CMOs desk, said "This is yours," and walked back out. He had had a little bit more luck though, lasting a whole three orns before returning the bundle of parts out of a lack of patience and a need for recharge. He was already taking care of a youngling, Bluestreak, who was currently being plagued by recurrent nightmares; and between the youngling's crying and the sparkling, the weapons specialist had decided he'd had enough.

At some point subsequent to twelve separate but equally unsuccessful attempts to send the sparkling off to be raised, Smokescreen had caught wind of the medic's predicament. After at least two joors of retelling all the known details of how the mech had come into Ratchet's care, his recovery under his care, and the abortive attempts at graduating him to a surrogate caretaker, the base psychologist had a few theories of what could be going through the sparkling's processor.

One was that he had an emotional attachment to the medic's red and white color scheme. Whether it was born out of those being the colors of one or both of his original creators, that of the mech who brought him in, parts of his home, or even the colors of a favored comfort item that had once been in his possession was immaterial; it was possible that it had left an imprint in the young, impressionable mind that associated the colors with comfort and safety.

"Sparklings are creatures of habit. They'll look for things that are typical or constant in their lives, and center their definition of 'normal' around them. What probably happened was that when he came in, he was experiencing quite a bit of internal turmoil caused by whatever traumatic event he had just been through, and he emotionally latched onto the first at least somewhat familiar thing he could find. He looked for something he could call 'normal', which in this case happened to be you, Ratchet, more specifically your paint job." At this, Smokescreen stood from his desk, and walked back to a data file cabinet. He pulled out the second drawer, and thumbed through the various datapads before pulling one out. Sitting back down at the table in his office rather than at his desk, the psychologist began flipping through the information. "This is a bookfile on post-traumatic stress disorder; a rather old one by our standards, but it's not like we've made anything more recent in a while. It's got a section dedicated to sparklings and younglings. I originally dragged this out for reference when Bluestreak he came in, since he was one of the oldest younglings that we've ever had come in. Funny thing is though, from everything that I can tell about him, he's behaving like a perfectly normal youngling. Even his nightmares seem typical of a youngling his age, and they only started recently."

When he finally stopped on a page, he handed the datapad to Ratchet, who looked at it somewhat tiredly. "So what do you suggest? It's not exactly like I can change the kid's favorite colors."

"No, but we can change someone else's." Smokescreen smirked.

Which brought the medic to the current attempt. This time, in hopes that sending the little yellow bot off with a similarly painted mech would finally allow for a more suitable caretaker to raise him, they'd scoured their troops for an appropriately painted and capable mech. And, after much trepidation, the medical team with the additional input of Smokescreen, had decided on a mech who would fit the bill.

Or at least, come close enough.

"Just a moment, Inferno, and then he's all yours." the medic said without looking up, already knowing that the large mech was leaning around the door frame.

"Al'righ' Ratch."

After being told about the color theory and their proposition, Inferno had told the team that he would be beyond delighted to try caring for the little mech. He'd even had some of the grey areas on his frame painted a color closer to white, so that his coloration would more closely resemble the CMO's.

And of course it didn't hurt that at the end of his rope Ratchet was cashing in on all the favors his old friend could possibly owe him from the past three centavorns.

The medic stood, and walked over to deposit the still feeding sparkling into his old friend's arms before turning to grab a bag from next to the recharging tank. He looked through the contents once more before handing it to Inferno, who slipped the strap over a shoulder.

"Thanks for trying this for us, Inferno. Like we said earlier, there's a high chance that he won't take to you, but we'd like to try getting him out of the med bay. Not the best influence."

"I understand, Ratchet." The larger mech laughed, the sparkling pausing his feeding momentarily to observe the mech making the loud sound. "And even if he don't take to me, you can certainly put me on the 'sparkling-sitters' list. It's been too long since the last time I just got to play wit' one of the little guys."

Ratchet smiled as he watched the sparkling study his holder. He was incredibly curious when awake, despite his very young age, and seemed to have a keen sense of sight, as well as hearing; he was also able to recognize the mechs who came in regularly to take[ ]him to other parts of the base and sparklingsit for the day.

"Well Ratch, looks like it's 'bout time for us to be headin' out for the night. Don't want to be keeping him up too late. If he decides to recharge, that is," Inferno said with a chuckle, running the tip of a finger down the mechlet's tiny noseplates, earning an indignant squeak around the cube's nub.

"Alright then. All of his things are in the bag, and there's enough graded energon in there to last through tomorrow. He usually sleeps on his left side, and clings to the round blue pillow while he does. If he doesn't go to recharge, try to get him to ingest something every three joors. Other than that, good luck with the little bratling."

"Thank ya, Ratchet. We'll see ya tomorrow." He waved as he turned and walked out of the medbay, temporary charge in tow.

Ratchet sighed as he leaned against the door frame to his office. He couldn't quite tell why, but the past few times he had sent the little mech off with a new caretaker, he'd felt almost...apprehensive, seemed like the most accurate word, to let the little mechlet go. It wasn't that he didn't trust the mechs and femmes that took him for the night. Far from it, he'd handpicked them; would entrust them with his life. Still, there was a nagging feeling that something wasn't right.

Oh well. Nothing he could do about it, he supposed. It was probably just some old line of caretaker code creeping up on him from back before the war, conflicting with his medical protocol programing.

Which was nothing he couldn't ignore, given a nice cube of high-grade. Now where would that slagging Second in Command be? He'd owed the CMO not only a cube of the good stuff for that wager a vorn ago, but a full joor's worth of a work-free refueling break, and he intended to combine them for full effect. High-grade didn't taste anywhere near as good when alone.

* * *

><p>It was probably close to halfway through the third shift when Ratchet finally ambled back into the med bay, optics firmly set upon his datapad. With no surprise battle, or any other major distractions, the empty bay had become far too quiet for the officer's tastes. So, in an uncharacteristic fit of restless abandon, he'd left Clockwork in charge, and had gone to do a medical storage inventory check. Usually that was a duty done by a junior med tech, or given out as a punishment, but for some reason the red and white bot found the dull humming of the generators and the lack of the sounds of medical machinery to be a balm to his audios.<p>

Now several joors later, he found that he was pleasantly surprised at the amount of supplies they had. It actually made some long-postponed upgrades possible much sooner than originally expected. The resident youngling would be pleased to know that he'd be gaining a foot or two with his next upgrade as well. He'd no doubt been getting tired of the short jokes that the other mechs had been tossing his way.

He walked to his office and sat in the plush chair, only then realizing how sore his peds were. With a sigh, he pulled out a blank datapad from his desk drawer, copied the new inventory list onto it, and began a previous and projected expenditure report for Prowl. No doubt that it was probably at least a decaorn and a half late, but he figured it was better than nothing.

It had been probably another 20 breems or so before he looked up from the report at the sound of the med bay doors opening. Leaving the report to be finished another time, he left his office.

Walking in was Inferno, who appeared tired, but not much worse for wear. In his arms was a grumpy looking, but quiet sparkling, rubbing at his optics.

"Hello, Ratchet," Inferno said as he offered the mech a smile, though it wasn't as bright as the night before.

"Inferno," the medic said in greeting, as he moved to lean against a counter. He watched as the sparkling turned his helm toward him as he spoke. "How'd it go?"

"It went about as well as could be expected, I s'pose. He does seem to do better wit' the red and white colors though, up till the moment I talk. Then he gets upset again. Did the same thing wit' Red Alert when I went to visit him today." Crossing the rest of the room, he placed the yellow frame into the medic's waiting arms. After a moment of what seemed to be hesitation, the mechlet attached himself firmly onto the red and white chassis.

"I see. And last night?"

"It started off al'righ' I suppose. He was quiet up until I tried to put him down, then he started cryin' up a storm. He'd quiet down a little when I picked him up, but as soon as I said somethin' he was back to cryin'."

"So he didn't recharge?" the medic asked, the frown on his face deepening as the mechlet started whining.

"Nah, he got some recharge. Just not much. He cried himself to recharge too."

"Huh, that's a first. Usually he'd either keep on screaming or sulk himself down."

Now it was Inferno who was wearing a frown, watching closely as Ratchet unconsciously ran his hand over the sparkling's helm to comfort him. "Cried in his recharge, too. Not like he was in pain or anything, but like he was distressed, upset. He missed you a lot, Ratch."

After a short pause, the medic replied, "It's nothing he wouldn't get over given time."

"Have you thought about keepin' and raisin' him yourself? He likes you the most, and it seems like you care about him too," Inferno said, gesturing to the way his hand was still running over the yellow helm.

Sighing, Ratchet stepped away from the counter and walked toward his office, motioning for the larger mech to follow. "I have thought about it, Inferno, but I'm not the best of influences, and I'm not the most ideal mech to raise a sparkling during a war. I'm on call at all times. I don't even have regular duty hours, and a sparkling needs bonding time and a routine set for them early in life, otherwise they have a possibility of developing separation anxieties or recharge issues, among other things.

"As for me raising him... I am not first-class caretaker material. I have a temper that even the Decepticons are afraid of, based purely on rumor." He paused for a moment as the sparkling loudly protested the idea of being put down in the recharge tank. Giving in, he arranged the mechlet on his shoulder, patting the small back gently. "I have very little patience for silliness, which is something that is an inherent part of a sparkling's nature. I haven't raised one since before the war, and for good reason. My duties in the war effort are very high-stakes, high-risk, and it brings out the worst in me. I'll admit that they've made me a bit cold, and more than a bit temperamental. Despite how much I might enjoy it, I wouldn't be anywhere near a perfect caretaker."

Crossing his arms, Inferno leaned against the doorway while his frown only deepened. "Ratch, I don't think that a consisten' schedule was ever really a major concern for ya when choosing caretakers. Otherwise you would have never chosen Ironhide to be Bluestreak's caretaker. A lot of the time he's not even the one to spend the nigh' with the mechlet, and he's more often than not one of the ones sent into the battles or sent on a mission off ship. You even gave Optimus a chance, and he has pretty much the busiest schedule of all 'o us, next to Prowl.

"Attitude ain' it either. Ironhide has about as much gentility as a brick, and all the patience of one o' Wheeljack's inventions. He has more duties as an officer than the rest o' the crew, and those have brough' out the more violent side of him without a doubt. And yet out o' all the possible non-command team candidates, you gave him Bluestreak.

"I think what's stopping ya is something more personal. I think tha' what you're afraid of is falling short and not doing right by him, given what happened las' time you raised a sparkling. What happened with him was not your fault. He was a grown mech who chose his own path despite your warnings and best efforts, and left. This little mech, however, wants to stay, is trying his hardest to tell you tha', but you keep pushing him away. It's hurtin' you both, and it doesn't take a genius to see tha'."

And once again, his friend was right. They'd known each other since long before the war, since before Optimus became Prime. Inferno usually knew what was going on in Ratchet's spark better than he himself did, and this time was no exception. He sighed and hung his helm slightly, away from the sparkling clinging to him. "I just don't know if I can do it, 'Ferno. If I'd even be good enough anymore."

"He don't need you to be a perfec' caretaker, Ratchet. He just needs you to be yourself and be there for him. Just think about it."

And with that, the large red and grey mech left the med bay, and Ratchet was alone with the sparkling and his thoughts.

Fragging slagger. He was always right.

* * *

><p>And don't worry, although Clockwork was mentioned in two chapters in a row, he's not even anywhere near being called an 'oc'. He's more of a name that gets thrown around when I need one. And in case you read this and went "Wait, in the movie, Ratchet was the most obscene shade of chartreuse available!", yes, I changed his colors to the cartoon's red and white. I needed them that way for the plot, and to be perfectly honest, I hated the chartreuse.<p>

_-BloodySpook_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Brutally Honest  
><strong>Chapter 3_

Alright, so I have an explanation to give. I honestly have not had the time recently for much of anything other than eating, sleeping, and work. And when I say that, I mean it. I have officially started my first job, and have an average a 50-70 hour work week now, and am on my feet for all of it. I cannot tell you how tired I am. So the internet has been one of the last things on my mind. **In short, my time for working on this is at a minimum, and I'm not sure when updates will be after this. **But rest assured, the next chapter is on its way. I was actually working on it on the bus back from work today.

I would like to thank my Beta, Vivienne Grainger, who actually read this chapter a long time ago. I just never got it up because of time issues. What I'd do without her correcting my horrible grammar and punctuation, I don't know.

And also a quick thank you to LdyGossamer, who reviewed the last chapter!

- I do not own the concept of Transformers.  
>- There are no warnings for this chapter<p>

* * *

><p>The first night back was always the hardest, Ratchet mused. And tonight was no different.<p>

Everything had gone fine up until it was feeding time for the mechlet. Then it all went to the Pit. Usually the sparkling would eat without complaint, simply drinking his energon quietly while playing with Ratchet's hands. But tonight, it seemed that the scraplet had other plans. He'd at first refused the meal in its entirety, lip plates determinedly pursed closed and unhappy whines coming from his diminutive vocalizer. And then when Ratchet had finally managed to wrestle the cube's nub into the mechlet's mouth and keep it there, the sparkling kept kicking his legs and squirming, refusing to be still. When all was said and done, the sparklet had only taken in half of what he normally would, and Ratchet had acquired more than a few scratches on his chassis.

Then, less than two joors later, he'd wailed inconsolably before purging rather spectacularly, managing to get it over most of his plating. Surprisingly little got on the medic's own plating, a small boon that he was thankful for as he had to try to comfort and bathe the fussy sparkling.

"Shhhh, I promise it'll be a short wash, I just need to get this off you," he soothed, as he tried to gently rub at the mechling's face with the solvent covered rag. Apparently though, it went unheard, as hiccups and small whimpers left the small yellow mech. He didn't like having the cleaning rag near his faceplates on a good orn, and feeling ill didn't make him any more complacent about to the idea in the least.

Ratchet sighed as he moved on to the sparkling's arms. The purging was most likely caused by stress, and if Ratchet was right, by anxiety over having been separated the previous night. As if he'd needed any more guilt added to that he felt over the little one's emotional state. . .

No matter how hard he tried though, Ratchet couldn't get Inferno's words out of his head. They rang all too clearly with the truths of why Ratchet had continued trying to hand off the bundle of parts. He'd been a caretaker before, yes, but in his opinion, a _failure_ at it.

Ratchet had raised him as best he could, and growing up, the mechlet was at the very least content, and had what was in the medic's opinion one of the most dazzling smiles. He'd taught the mechlet everything a good caretaker should have; praised him at his first words and steps, helped him learn to read and write glyphs, and tried to instill a sense of right and wrong in him when he'd done something bad. Ratchet had made sure that the mech received all his upgrades on time, was at the peak of health, did well at the academy of his choice, and was well enough off when he'd finally left the medic's care. They'd always had a close relationship, and tried to keep in contact regularly.

But then, when the rebellions and riots started, things changed so rapidly Ratchet barely had time for an intake of air. Despite expressing his concerns towards his grown mechling, he'd chosen to stay in the thick of it all, insisting he was fine. Then, the communications between them became fewer, and less frequent. The topics were becoming darker and increasingly grim, and there were more arguments than agreements. It continued like that for a time, until the mech had refused to be in contact with his former caretaker any longer. Meanwhile, civil unrest continued to escalate, until before Ratchet knew it, allegiances were claimed as war was declared. And much to his dismay, Ratchet found that he and his former charge were on opposite sides of the battlefield.

His sparkling was no longer his, and had no desire to be thought of as such.

He plucked this sparkling out of the sink and wrapped him in a fluffy towel that hung on a hook nearby, specially made for sensitive plating. Ratchet cooed quietly to the sparkling, rubbing gently to get the solvent off quickly so that he wouldn't get too cold.

"There, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" he sighed in an exasperated manner, for once simply not caring if he sounded tired. He was; emotionally more than physically.

Thinking about his wayward charge did that to him. It drained his spark, in a way, taking a little bit more of the fight out of him every time. Despite all of the good memories he had of him, it seemed that the darker, newer memory files dominated his thoughts.

He supposed that was part of what held him back as well. The fear that he wouldn't be able to overlook how things were with his last sparkling, to see this one for what he was; unable to enjoy the process and make new memories. That would be unfair to the little mech, and caused no small amount of sparkache for Ratchet.

Sitting heavily in the chair just outside of his private wash racks, Ratchet gazed down at the sparkling cradled loosely in the crook of his left elbow. He was gnawing on his fist while watching the medic with bleary optics.

He thought as he watched the wary sparkling, idly taking in details. His sparkling had had dark blue optics before he'd had them changed, while the one in his arms had a set that were a light, almost pale blue. He'd also had black plating with white and silver accents, while he was currently faced with yellow paint sporting black accents. The mechling he held in his arms also had the beginnings of a set of quad doorwings, something he hadn't seen in vorns. While non-Praxians could have doorwings if the coding and ancestry lined themselves up just right, it was extremely rare for them to develop a quad set. Even Praxians themselves, sparked with a predisposition for the doorwing coding, very rarely had a quad set. Ratchet would have to watch their development closely; while non-Praxians doorwings were nowhere near as sensitive as Praxians' were, his medical research and experience had taught him that quad-doorwings could become extremely sensitive if their growth and development was not monitored.

The sparkling and medic continued their staring contest a while longer, the medic speculating on the upgrades and medical attentions the mechling might need in the future, the sparkling watching him quietly, his free hand curling and uncurling, in a nervous comfort-seeking habit.

Then, after a time, the red and white mech adjusted the sparkling to lie over his shoulder, stood, and walked back to his berthroom, grabbing the cube of energon off the desk in his quarters as he passed it by. He stuck it on the berthside table, before turning toward the crib to his immediate left. Unlike the temporary recharge tank in his med bay office, this was a permanent crib designed specifically for the yellow bundle of parts.

For some reason, Wheeljack had an affinity for building each sparkling that came through the base its own crib. Maybe he liked building something that had nothing to do with war, something that used to be every day. Or maybe he was just an absolute softie when it came to sparklings.

Ratchet went to move the bundle of sleepy parts from his shoulder to place him in the crib, but as soon has he caught sight of it, the mechlet started whimpering.

"Oh come now, it's just your berth. You recharge in it every night," Ratchet sighed, choosing to ignore the whines coming from his arms. He settled the sparkling in the crib, carefully dislodging tiny fingers from his plating. As soon as his hands were out of reach though, tiny lip plates burst into wails that were surprisingly soft, but no less spark-wrenching.

"No-no, not this again." Ratchet said, reaching over to grab the blanket draped over the back of the crib. He wrapped it around the mechling's lower half, ignoring his wriggling. Then, reaching into the crib to put the silicone pacifier in its mouth, he continued talking to the fussy sparkling. "You do this every time. And every time, I give in. You're taking far too much after me with your stubbornness. Either that or I'm going soft, Primus forbid."

He walked back to his berth and sat, resolute in his decision. It was good for sparklings to cry, it let them learn to fall into recharge on their own. Spoiling them early was just as bad as ignoring them completely. This was what he had done with his own sparkling, and this one would be no exception. Swiping the cube of energon off of his berthside table, he continued justifying himself mentally, drinking the midgrade in slow, meditated sips.

After a few sips, he noticed that the whines that had been muffled by the mechling's pacifier had quieted to nothing but the sounds of a pair of mismatched systems and his own drinking. He finished off the rest of the cube, and placed it back on the table before leaning forward, arms propped on his legs, servos between his knees.

He blinked a few times and cycled deeply before settling himself on the berth for recharge, wincing slightly at the groans and creaks that his joints gave. He'd been neglecting to take time for any sort of personal maintenance for a while; so though it was no surprise that he was beginning to hear its effects, it was no less pleasant to be reminded of one's state of disrepair. Still, he let himself relax into the gel surface of the berth, and tried to ease his systems into recharge. After several groons of lying awake and staring blankly at the ceiling though, he gave up.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, he sat back up. He leaned an arm against his knees, and gently ground the heel of his other hand into his optic shutter. His processor was now buzzing, refusing to leave him in peace. He didn't know why he couldn't recharge. It felt like some bad line of code, or several conflicting codes, nagging at him, while not being obvious as to what exactly they were. Even all of his medical scans came back clean.

He looked back towards the crib, and stared at it for a time. Eventually, he sighed and rose from his berth, walking over to the small chest at the foot of the berth. Reaching in, he pulled out the spare gel pillow, and threw it on the berth before trudging over to the crib. Looking inside he was met with pale blue optics rimmed with coolant tears.

"You ready for recharge, squirt?" he asked in an utterly resigned manner. The sparkling simply held his arms out to Ratchet, grabbing at the air once with his hands. With a sigh, the medic hoisted the yellow mechling out of the crib and held him against his chest plates gently.

Laying back down on the berth, Ratchet carefully positioned himself on his side so that the sparkling was lying on the extra pillow but still pressed close to his spark. He rearranged his own rarely used thermal blanket so that it covered both of them, before settling his systems into a pre-recharge hum. Within moments, the sparkling began to drift off, optic shutters fluttering.

"You're a lightweight, kid. When you're not being stubborn," Ratchet scoffed lightly. All he got in return was a soft click before pale blue optics finally shut and stayed so, small facial plates snuggling into his plating. "G'night, bratling," he whispered, slipping more easily into his own recharge.

* * *

><p>This chapter is mainly to focus on the relationship between Ratchet and the sparkling, while also giving insight into why Ratchet is who he is in the story. I hope it answered a few questions, while also bringing up new ones, like who Ratchet's first sparkling was. The next chapter is going to be the first major milestone for the plotline, so stay tuned.<p>

_-BloodySpook_


End file.
